Relative Density
by orchidcactus
Summary: In war, there are no unwounded soldiers. Post-ME3, Shepard/Garrus.
1. Chapter 1

Rating: T. Contains limited canon-typical gore/violence and language.  
Pairing: f!Shepard/Garrus  
Beta: As always, many thanks to anonymous_moose.  
Warnings: None.  
A/N: Summary quote attributed to José Narosky. Written for a prompt, see end notes.

* * *

_"Sometimes it seems like the Alliance runs on paperwork." The whiskey is warm on the way down and her vision blurs as she looks at her empty glass. "None of the forms tell you how to get the blood out from under your nails."_

1.

Late winter in Vancouver is every bit as damp and cold and miserable as Shepard remembers, and the weather isn't helping her mood. It hasn't stopped raining in a month and this morning is no exception; it's forecast to become a downpour by mid-morning.

She pulls up her hood, then jams her hands into the pocket of her sweatshirt. After being grounded so long, if she never has to return to Alliance headquarters, it'll be too soon.

The streetlights buzz above her, the one directly overhead flickering on and off as she starts stretching out. She could run on one of the treadmills in the gym under HQ, but with the rain, there would be too many people there. Too many grins and handshakes and thank-yous she doesn't deserve.

She wonders how they'd react if they knew all the mistakes she's made.

Hackett's been giving her regular status reports on the _Normandy_, Liara slips her info that the Council is reviewing her evals, and they all keep saying it will be soon. They've been telling her _soon_ for the last month and it's straining her patience.

She's not the only one who's having problems with the inactivity. Garrus has been on edge lately, too. Not his planet, not his people, and now with key relays repaired, she's the only thing holding him here.

The argument they'd had before she left their quarters had been stupid; even as they were shouting at each other, she knew it was stupid. Didn't stop her from acting like an idiot, smacking the control panel on her way out, slamming the door closed behind her.

It's not the first time it's occurred to her that he might be better off without her. Maybe he's starting to think the same thing.

She sighs, straightening from her stretch. She stands there, blinking away the rain, staring at the rows of ugly grey prefab buildings, squatting in the the rain.

She needs to go back. Apologize. Get out of these damp clothes. Probably end up in the shower with him. Or the couch. Or maybe they'd even make it to the bed this time. It's how they've come to solve a fair number of their disagreements. It's so much easier to fuck than it is to talk.

Her hands knot inside the sweatshirt, hard enough that her fingers ache.

"Goddamn it, Garrus," she says, wiping her face with her sleeve. Then she turns away, puts her ear buds in, and cranks the playlist Liara sent her.

She can't deal with lying to him right now. And it is lying, because she keeps feeding him the same line about the rain and the cold and the people when she sure as hell knows it isn't any of those things.

So she runs.

The route she usually takes is a straight out-and-back to the firing range; four miles. Today, she decides on a wider loop, through the rest of the temporary housing, past the commissary and then the grandstands of the parade fields.

It takes her a solid mile to warm up, before she starts to feel loose and can fall into her normal rhythm. Then she picks up her pace and tries in earnest to forget the reason she's out here; hard to think when her heart is hammering in her chest and every breath is torn from her lungs. Her feet strike the pavement and the music blasts in her ears and she runs.

It doesn't take long and she's sweating despite the temperature and the rain. It's coming down faster now, icy needles that soak her clothes and sting her face. Other than wiping her eyes occasionally, she ignores it.

The path turns at the security checkpoint for the tech buildings. She has the right clearances. If she wanted, she could make her way into the labs and talk to the engineers about the lack of progress on restoring the _Normandy's_ AI. Her status means she could review the reports again on exactly what the Crucible—what she—had done to EDI.

She turns again when she reaches the planet-side dry dock gates, noting the sentry standing watch. A year after the war the Alliance has decided some of the ships are beyond repair. The _Ain Jalut_ and the _Leipzig_ are closest to the fence, carbon-darkened hulls listing into the muddy field.

She's almost sprinting as she puts the dry dock behind her. The music blots out the sound of rain and gasping for the next breath narrows her world to a single thought. Cybernetics or not, she'll only be able to push this hard for so long.

By the time she reaches the shipyard, the forecast heavy rain has arrived early. She lets her strides shorten into a slow jog and then a walk, heading for the viewing platform that overlooks the lower hangars.

No matter the route she takes, she always ends up here.

It's not something she's ever kept secret. So she isn't really surprised when she climbs the second set of stairs and finds Garrus standing under the platform's awning.

He's half-turned away, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed over his chest as he stares at the _Normandy_. He looks tired, mandibles pressed against his jaw, eyes narrow on the ship. She's never really gotten used to seeing him in civvies day in and day out. Another reminder that this isn't where he belongs.

She reaches under her hood, slowly taking the earbuds out. The rain drumming on the awning replaces asari pop.

He turns towards her, uncrossing his arms and meets her eyes with the same unwavering steadiness that she's come to rely on. The difference now is he's completely worn out. She's fought beside him through countless firefights, against the worst of odds, and never seen fatigue like this in him.

Maybe she lets too much worry show because he shakes his head and raises a hand toward her face, brushing the backs of his talons along her jaw. When he cups her cheek, his hand is warm and solid, and her throat aches a little, because she's going to tell him the same lie she's told a dozen times.

"Garrus, I'm—"

His mandibles tighten a bit more and he lets his hand drop.

"Let's get out of the cold," he says.

She doesn't argue about letting him drive. Doesn't say a word as she takes the passenger seat. The ride to their quarters is silent, the steady rain on the windshield almost overwhelming the wipers. She's soaked through and cools off too quickly, trying not to shiver as she watches grey buildings slide by her window.

When the door to the prefab apartment closes behind Garrus, she turns and looks at him. He's standing just inside the entrance, face set in that same tired expression that says the last thing he wants to do is argue.

The cold and her run have knocked the fight out of her, too. She's not going to try to apologize again. "Thank you. For coming to get me."

"Welcome." He looks at the wet prints they've left on the floor. "It never stops raining here, does it."

She snorts at the humorless comment, shivering again, and he sighs, stepping forward to touch her hand. He frowns at the contact, slowly reaching up to push her hood off, watching as it slides from her hair.

"You're cold," he says, tips of his fingers on her temple, trailing warm lines to rest under her jawline, one on the pulse of her throat. "Should have said something. Would have turned on the heat."

"I'm fine," she tells him, swallowing when his thumb brushes the curve below her lower lip. "Just—" she picks at the hem of her sweatshirt, pulling it from her stomach, "need a shower and dry clothes."

"Right." He's still concerned, but there's an undercurrent to his subvocals she recognizes. She thinks he's going to kiss her, but he only steps back, letting her go. "I'll be here when you get out."

She doesn't look back on her way to the bathroom, peeling out of her sweats, turning the water up as hot as she can stand. She half-expects him to tap on the door, slip into the shower with her. It's happened often enough in the past.

_Sorry_, she'll tell him, and he'll echo it, before he presses her against the tiled wall, kissing her hard. There won't be anything gentle in the way he winds his talons in her hair, or the way she grips his cowl and waist. She knows ways to make him growl; he can reduce her to crying his name to a god she doesn't believe in.

It's so much easier to fuck than it is to talk.

She bows her head under the water, letting the heat bleed through her scalp, down her back. She wonders if she'll ever be warm again.

2.

Shepard takes her time as she works her way up to the third floor of the shelled-out apartment building, stopping to make sure a damaged tread isn't going to fall out from under her. No way she's getting injured climbing a set of stairs, not after waiting so long to get back out here.

There's not much chatter over the comms, Vega and the rest of her team know their jobs. She pauses on the third floor to check her omni-tool, smiling before she wipes the sweat from her eyes. Despite the fact they could have solved this situation much more quickly with the _Normandy's_ cannons, she can't stop smiling.

The schematics on her omni-tool tell her she's almost there, and she makes a left into a short hallway, then another to climb over a collapsed wall into what was once a living room. Across the room, the exterior balcony doors are long gone. A charred frame is all that's left, and the railing is pulled up and twisted in an arch over the landing.

She drops down and slides under the railing, getting comfortable as she assesses her position. It's better than she'd hoped. She has a clear vantage of where the slavers have entrenched themselves and will be able to monitor the operation without losing sight of her team on the street below.

She watches them for a moment, Vega's keeping an eye on the young marines, providing occasional wise-cracks to go with his direction.

It's all coming together like clockwork and she can almost pretend the war and the choices she made and the long months afterwards in Vancouver never happened.

She reaches behind her, pulling her rifle from its magnetic holds, unfolding it with practiced motions. A bead of sweat runs down her nose, dripping onto the stock. Saying it's hot at this latitude would be an understatement, but but she's not going to complain.

The entire left flank of their approach is blocked by a collapsed office building, the structure jumbled together in a heap of broken glass and composite panels. She scans it, finding what she's looking for at her nine o'clock, a spot of blue set against dull grey.

Garrus is using an upended panel as cover, leaned against it almost casually, waiting for Vega's team to get into position. He must have the optics on his visor maxed because when she focuses on his face, he grins and the private comm link between them clicks open.

"Thought you said you were taking me somewhere nice," he says. If he's not purposefully laying on the subvocals, she'll eat her rifle.

"There's nowhere you'd rather be and you know it."

Vega signals from the middle of the street. He and the marines are almost ready.

This draws Garrus' attention for a moment, but then he looks back and his smile widens, voice dropping a little lower and rougher still. "Oh. I don't know. This morning... I liked being there."

Then the smug bastard winks at her.

The flush of warmth that floods her cheeks has nothing to do with the sun. "Time and place, Vakarian. Time and place. Keep your head down."

The slavers open fire and Garrus gives a short wave as he hunkers down; all she can see of him as he sets up is the glow from his visor.

There are a few more bursts of gunfire that kick up dust in the middle of the street, the mercenaries targeting Vega and his squad. Listening in on the comms, she chuckles as he shouts at one of them. A few seconds later, he explains more quietly how she'd exposed herself to potential enemy snipers. Shepard can almost picture him clapping her on the shoulder. He makes a good teacher, but that doesn't surprise her.

"We're good to go, Lola," he says over the general channel.

"You heard him, people," she says. "Be smart and take your time. I want everyone coming home in one piece."

At Vega's command, the marines open fire, the uneven chatter of machine guns filling the street. Jack hadn't exaggerated about the biotics she'd recommended; one of them flings a shock wave into the blockade and blows a merc into the open; machine guns rip his shields and armor apart as he pinwheels through the air.

Shepard watches this repeat twice before some of the enemy troops attempt to run. What they don't know is she and Garrus are covering their only escape route. And they're both a little short on mercy today.

The butt of her rifle is solid and familiar against her shoulder, composite stock rough on her cheek as she targets an asari in mismatched armor. The asari is half-hidden by the remains of a skycar, but then she pivots from cover, sending a weak biotic pulse towards Vega.

Shepard breaths out, crosshairs settling on center mass. Sweat stings her eyes, but she barely notices as she tightens her index finger. She knows the shot will find its mark even before the asari crumples.

Garrus is on the comms again. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

One of the marines lifts a merc into the air. Vega's assault rifle fires. The salarian's dead before he slams to the ground.

"Damn good," she answers, finding her next target. This time it's a human. Male.

"Heads up! We got incoming!" Vega shouts.

Smoke canisters hit the buckled concrete, hissing as they discharge plumes of white, obscuring the battlefield. Rounds zing through the haze and Shepard frowns, flipping to biometrics on the scope. It's an improvement, but not by much.

"There," she mutters under her breath, finally getting a heat reading. "Vega, you've got movement on your two. Watch your ass."

"Don't see anything," he calls out. "Visibility's shit."

"Got him," she says, making out the lines of armor. Another salarian trying to get in close. She leads him, adds pressure to the trigger, and the rifle kicks back against her shoulder.

The round goes low, catching the salarian in the hip, spinning him to his knees, and she curses.

But if her team is working like the past months never happened, it's like she and Garrus didn't miss a beat, either. His Widow cracks a split-second later and the trooper's head disappears. No question she's going to hear about it later and that's just like old times, too.

"Scoped and dropped!" he laughs.

"Nice shot. You can watch my back anytime," she says. So it comes out like bad pick-up line. Can't really help it, not feeling like this.

There's the _whump-whump-whump_ of a series of rocket-propelled grenades launching and she ducks, shielding her head with an arm. One of them strikes the building, two floors up, and the balcony shakes. Rock chips and dirt rain down, bouncing off her armor, but before the dust has settled, she's knocking the spent clip out of her rifle and pressing the next in.

"You okay up there, Lola?"

"Yeah." She coughs, dropping another enemy soldier. Slugs strike the concrete wall above her head, showering her with another round of debris. "Vakarian? You still with us?"

She sights in on a trooper and this time she doesn't miss, her bullet shredding his shields and burying itself into his chest. Seconds tick by without an answer.

"Mr. Vega?" she says, voice even. She takes out another merc with a precise head shot. "Find out why Garrus isn't answering his comms."

"We're on it."

He orders three of the marines to follow, and Shepard tracks their progress as they start across the street. It takes effort to pull her focus back to the fight. She spots an asari running between positions, exhales, and puts the woman down with a carefully timed shot.

Her fingers shake a little with the next thermal clip, but she doesn't fumble it as she slips it into the chamber.

And then she hears Vega.

"Shepard, you need to get over here," he says. Too serious. Worried.

_Shepard_, instead of _Lola_, and Garrus still hasn't said a word.

"James?" She's already crawling backward, moving too fast, getting hung up on a handrail. She curses, twisting to the side until the metal gives. "What the hell's going on?"

"Vakarian—" he breaks off to shout at one of the marines. "No! Look, _pendejo_, his armor's jacked. Gotta apply the medi-gel yourself. You, keep your fuckin' eyes downrange. And you—Miller? Help me with this while I get Chakwas on the line."

She starts to run. The stairs will take too long; she heads for the side of the building where the exterior wall collapsed under shelling, not bothering to keep her head down, activating her tactical cloak.

"Vega, you'd better start talking to me!"

"He caught some shrapnel."

They've all taken hits in the past, but the way he says it tells her that this is different.

She reaches the sheared-off edge of the building and doesn't hesitate to jump to the mountain of concrete and steel left from the collapse. She lands hard, the force of impact sending her to her knees. She scrambles to her feet, half-sliding, half-falling down the heap of debris. A broken piece of rebar catches her waist, but she barely feels where the jagged steel slips between ceramic plates, tearing through ballistic cloth and into her skin.

Then she's running again, and all she hears is the roar of blood in her ears and Vega shouting for more stims.

3.

The signal in the shower beeps at Shepard, letting her know she's hit her limit for resource use. Before, she might have used her override privileges, or at least muttered a few fitting quarian curses at it. Now she only grins as she turns off the water.

"God, I've missed this ship," she says toward the closed door. She deactivates the static curtain and grabs a towel from the rack, noticing that the Alliance-grey towels haven't changed either. They're coarse and scratchy and still smell like a mixture of chemical cleanser and long-term storage.

"What?" Garrus' voice is muffled. He was using her terminal when she went into the bathroom, a flick of his mandibles his only answer to her offer. There might have been a comment about the size of the shower and her taking up more than her share of the water.

"I missed—" she wraps the towel around herself and slides the door open, "—my ship."

"So you've mentioned," he says, tapping the keyboard. He sounds distracted and Shepard moves to read over his shoulder. Pictures of destroyed buildings and landscape that could have been taken on Earth, except it's turians rebuilding.

"Palaven?" she asks. He's back in armor, familiar blue accented with gold, but she can still rest her hand in the warm space between his cowl and neck.

"Yeah." He tilts his head and presses his cheek briefly against her hand, then zooms in on a coastline. "The silent houses haven't been rebuilt, but the Reapers couldn't take out an entire ocean."

She nods, crease forming on her forehead. "I didn't expect to get hit with orders on our way. Especially ones command won't let me solve with a Thanix cannon. Sorry we can't get you there any faster."

"Shepard. I could have taken a place on the _Undaunted_. Been back to Palaven months ago." He looks up at her, eyes blue and direct. "I'm exactly where I belong."

She blinks, hard and fast, and clears her throat. After Vancouver, she wouldn't blame him for rethinking this, reconsidering _them_.

"I'm glad," she finally says. "If you're sure you're okay with this."

"Definitely," he says, flaring his mandibles. "How about you? You don't have to go with me."

"I think I do," she says, running a hand over her wet hair, looking at the terminal screen. "Maybe. I don't know. Maybe I'm just worried I'll screw something up."

"Hey," he says, catching her hand, threading his talons through her fingers. "You've gone through a krogan rite of passage, battlemaster."

Her laugh comes out as a snort. "Uh-huh. Difference is, I'm good at blowing up thresher maws. Had a bit of practice. Solemn turian ceremonies, not as much."

"I have no doubts," he tugs on her hand, gently, "that you'll be fine. I'll be right there and there are attendants who will answer any questions. With the unrest, they're armed. So, don't let that put you off."

"Comforting." She lets him pull her forward, until her legs bump his. "Is this a variation on your 'we'll get through this together' speech?"

"Well, we always do. Don't we?"

She bends down and kisses him, the lines of his mouth hard against hers. His hand tightens around hers and she squeezes back.

"Yeah. I guess we do," she says, before kissing him again.

He makes a rumbling purr of sound that she answers by gently nipping his upper mouthplate. He rests a hand on her waist and she's half-tempted to slide her hand around his fringe and dig her nails into the softer hide there. Instead she breaks the kiss off and presses her forehead to his.

He huffs out a short laugh. "Should have taken you up on that shower."

"Mhm. Should have." She kisses the top of his head and then lets go of his hand. "I need to get dressed. Expecting a vid call from Jack."

"Briefing about those marines we're picking up?"

"Yeah." She walks down the stairs, pulls open a drawer. At least she doesn't have to put on her dress blues for this. "She says they're some of the strongest biotics the academy is turning out right now, wants to put the best of them under stress, weed out the ones that aren't combat material."

"You letting Vega keep an eye on them?"

She hears him turn in the chair, and the ping of the terminal as he logs out. His armor creaks as he crosses the room.

"Think so," she says, rifling through the drawer. She's sure she packed extra padded socks. "Call me selfish, but the first time out, I want to do more than babysit."

"Can't blame you." He leans against the aquarium, head tilted to one side, smiling a little. "Check your duffel, bottom of the closet."

She opens the closet, kneeling down to dig through the duffel, only to find a small plastic case on top of her socks. She knows by touch that it's the case for a scope mod.

"Sneaky," she says, releasing the catch on the case, pushing the lid up. And stops. Not just any scope mod. "How'd you get this?"

"Called in some favors."

"Uh-huh." She glances at him, then runs her finger over the Rosenkov emblem. "This is a RM-88 prototype. Advanced biometric sensors, distortion dampeners... big favors."

"Not really," he shrugs.

"Just when I think I couldn't love you more—" She clicks the case closed, staring at the lid. It's not something they've said, words that haven't felt right after that final push to the beam.

"I do, you know," she says, turning the case in her hands. "I know I don't say it. But I do."

Silence stretches out, filled only by the far-off hum of the engine and the hiss of air from the vents. His armor creaks again. "Shepard..."

She turns the case in her hands again, sets it down next to her duffel. Finally looks up at him.

His expression too much like that day in the rain. Serious and so, so tired. He straightens from the aquarium, stepping forward to holding out his hand.

She lets him help her to her feet and he surprises her again, pulling her close and wrapping his arms around her as though he's anchoring himself. His armor is hard against her cheek and his breathing is uneven.

She'd ask if he is okay, but it's a pointless question. People like them, they carry things that can never really be _okay_. There's coping and surviving and the day to day struggle to pretend to be who they once were.

"I know—" He sighs. "I know Vancouver was... hard. But back in London..." Another long pause. "I meant what I said. Retirement. Kids."

She closes her eyes because right now that sounds too close to _okay_.

"Shepard," he mutters into her hair, "I love you."


	2. Chapter 2

_The smooth shape of the last stone fits perfectly in her hand, the sharp edges worn away by time. She squeezes, until the force of it bruises her palm. "I am so sorry."_

1.

When she turns off the water, she can hear the rain, still falling steadily outside. He's right. It never stops.

She doesn't bother with anything other than clean sweats. They're faded and worn, and the top has a hole in the sleeve where she burned it on a soldering iron. At this point, all she cares about is they're warm and comfortable. She thinks about looking for her slippers, gives up after one glance at her messy closet.

Garrus is sitting to one end of the couch when she walks into the living area. There are shot glasses and two bottles on the low table in front of him. The glass nearest him has a generous amount of pale green cervisia in it. He lifts it, eyes meeting hers as he gives a small salute with the glass and knocks back the shot. From the tension in his expression, she'd guess this is only his second.

She looks at him, thinks of making a smart-ass remark about how early it is, but instead crosses the room and sits down beside him. The floor is cold and she pulls her feet up under herself.

Neither of them say anything when he fills the extra glass with whiskey and pushes it toward her.

The first shot always burns. The rest will come easier. She sets the glass back down, uses her index finger to slide it back to him.

He refills it without comment, waiting until she empties it.

"Now we're caught up," he says. The next round he pours almost over-fills her glass; a bead of whiskey rolls down the side and wicks under the bottom rim. Any other day, she'd tell him to go easy. Now she's wishing he'd gone straight to the water tumblers.

She lifts her drink and it leaves a whiskey ring behind on the table top. She downs the drink easily, reaches for the bottle, and refills her own glass. In response to his raised browplates, she says, "Cerberus augmented liver. Now we're caught up."

This earns a dry laugh and a smile that fades all too quickly. He stares at the ring on the table, unblinking until the heating unit kicks on again.

"We need to talk," she says, then waves a hand at the table. "I guess you know that."

"I do." He looks up. "But we keep having the same conversation."

She can't deny it. Not when she's fed him the same lie over and over. So, she finds herself telling him the truth.

"It's not about the cold. It's not the people, not really. It's not the rain." She wraps her arm around her knees. "And I know I'm making you miserable."

He picks up his glass, with obvious care. He doesn't drink the entire shot this time, holding it up and tipping it so the remaining green liquid catches the light.

"I know it's none of those things, also damned sure I've done my share of making your life hell," he says. "You're not the only one with burdens."

The heat clicks off, fan in the ventilation shaft whirring to a stop, but the whiskey is doing its job and other than the quiet, Shepard doesn't notice.

"I thought that business with Sidonis..." she trails off. "You never mentioned it again."

"You never asked."

Though there's no malice behind the words and they're simply a statement of fact, the truth of it hurts. She starts to reply, and he shakes his head to stop her.

"I dealt with that. And you're behind." He pointedly finishes his cervisia. "This isn't about Sidonis."

Sometimes drinking and listening are the only available options. Even the best option. She drains her glass and says nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"Can I ask you something, Shepard?" he says. "Those files the Shadow Broker had on me." He snags her bottle, pours for her. "Beyond telling me you saw them, you never said a word."

"They weren't meant for me. I figured you'd ask if you needed help." She meets his eyes, drinks, and sets the glass down harder than she intends. "And that isn't a question."

"Fair enough," he says. "Did you ever wonder what kind of son doesn't go see his terminally ill mother once in two years?"

Another thing she hadn't known.

"I—You were doing good work on Omega."

"That's what I told myself." He picks up the cervisia bottle, pausing before he refills his glass. "As close as I can figure, while I was leading that second team on the Collector base, she was in the middle of a full cardiac arrest. Never came out of it."

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, opens them again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why haven't you told me what's eating at you?"

Her head is buzzing a little. She remembers she hasn't eaten today. Cerberus upgrades or not, she's getting drunk fast. She picks up her whisky, staring at the circle the glass leaves behind on the table.

"Fair enough," she says. "There were costs during the war that I can accept as out of my control. Mordin. Thane. Anderson. But there are some I can't." She touches the edge of the ring of whiskey with her fingertip, dragging away a line. She takes a drink and then says, "Kaidan."

Garrus starts to interject and this time it's her turn to cut him off with a shake of her head.

"I should have talked him down."

"You don't know—"

"The geth." She draws another line, and then one more. Tally marks. "EDI.

"I made too many mistakes, Garrus." Another mark. "Those mistakes led to what happened to the quarians." One last line. "And Tali."

At the final name, Garrus' jaw tightens, mandibles flat to his face. He'd been there, of course. Garrus always had her six.

"Tali made that choice. Not you."

"That's what I tell myself," she says, repeating his words. "And people certainly don't care. I fill out my reports and tell Command what I've done and they congratulate me. For fuck's sake, Garrus, they're naming schools after me."

Her eyes start to burn and she wipes them. "Damn it."

Somehow he knows not to offer her platitudes. Instead he half-stands, moving to sit next to her.

"The brass keeps sending me to therapists. They keep wanting to talk. Talking doesn't help. Wish I could figure out something that did."

He wraps an arm around her shoulders. "They wanted to talk to me, too. Told them turians don't see the point. We have a ceremony to remember the fallen. Sometimes it helps."

She leans sideways, head on his cowl. She understands guilt. "You couldn't do it, though, could you? For your mom?"

"No. Couldn't work up the nerve." He clears his throat. "My dad and Solona went, but I couldn't. Now—now I need to."

"I could get you a spot out to Palaven tomorrow."

"Wouldn't be on the _Normandy_." He tilts his head to rest on hers. "Wouldn't be with you."

"They keep telling me _soon_," she says.

He's quiet for a long while. The heat cycles back on and then off again before he says anything, and then it's simply: "You could go with me."

2.

The air is thick and hot, smoke burns her lungs as she activates her cloak again and breaks from cover. It's a long ten seconds through a maze of charred skycars and transports, between broken pieces of architecture and hasty barricades the city had put up when the Reapers came.

She's still thinking clearly enough to shout orders as she runs. "Joker! You there?"

"Shepard. What the shit, Vega patched an emergency override to the med-bay, the comms are going—"

"Garrus is down. If Chakwas hasn't ordered it, get the fucking shuttle in the air. Full med support."

"Shit. _Shit_," he says. "ETA three minutes. Best we can do. And that LZ is too hot, you need to do something about it."

Her cloak times out and shots clip the pavement behind her. She jerks to the side, behind a skycar, waiting for the cloak to reset. She can hear Vega's one-sided conversation with Chakwas and knows she's close to Garrus' position.

She leans her head back against the car's frame and comes to a decision. Command can get fucked. "Joker. You got a firing solution on these assholes?"

"Just give the word."

"Nothing left, you understand? Just a smoking hole."

She doesn't wait to listen to his answer; her cloak has reset and as it crackles to life around her, she makes the final dash.

One of the marines is standing watch behind the concrete slab, and jerks his rifle towards her when she turns the cloak off.

"Stand down, corporal," she tells him. His face is an off shade of white and she pushes by him without another word.

Of all the things she could have expected, all the things she's been trying not to imagine, this is worse.

There's a smudge of blue on the slab, three-fingered hand print, and another smear where a body slid down its face. At the end of the smear, Garrus lays in the dirt and rock, one leg folded under his body, his arm stretched limply in the dust. His eyes are closed, head tilted back, mandibles slack.

And there's so much blue. Staining the dirt, spattered on the rocks, covering Vega's hands and uniform and a pressure bandage that was once white.

Vega's on the far side of him, Miller closest, with the younger marine holding up a bag of IV fluids in one hand and the other pressing the bandage against Garrus' chest. His chestplate is off, and what underarmor Shepard can see is saturated to the point that it's black.

Vega looks up and his eyes meet hers and Shepard feels her entire body go numb and cold. "No," she tells him, taking a halting step forward.

He doesn't say anything, only nods at orders from the ship, pulls out an auto-injector, and jams it into a port in the IV line. When the stims hit his system, Garrus gasps. His mandibles flex and he makes a wet, choking noise and Shepard takes two more steps and goes to her knees beside him.

She grabs his hand and he turns his head, blinking at her.

"Shepard." He chokes again, breathing in raggedly. "Wait a bit—"

"Middle of a firefight, I know." She pulls his glove off, pressing his hand to her cheek. He's so very cold. There's a trail of blue leaking from the corner of his mouth and his breathing rattles.

"Ma'am," Miller says, holding out the IV set. "Need two hands for this."

She takes it and then Vega nods at the marine and when Miller pulls up the pad, Garrus' eyes flutter, grip relaxing as though he's losing consciousness.

"Vakarian! Stay with me," she says, as Vega squeezes out another pack of medi-gel. The wound runs from abdomen halfway up his sternum, and the medi-gel isn't slowing the bleeding enough. "I can make that an order, if I have to."

The marine replaces the pad and after another strained breath Garrus tightens his grip and opens his eyes again.

"Hurts. Spirits, Shepard. It hurts."

She looks up at Vega, but he shakes his head. Can't hit him with narcotics, not on top of the stims.

"I know it does, but we can't give you anything yet," she says. "Shuttle will be here in two minutes. I need you to hold on, okay?"

"Should have," he tries for a grin, "learned to duck."

"Didn't need new scars to impress me."

In her peripheral vision, Vega's pressing a yellow injector into the port, and there's still no sign of the shuttle and Shepard has never felt so absolutely helpless.

Garrus coughs, the sound thready and weak. "Hey. It's okay. Remember, what I said? London?"

She feels her chest constrict. "Retirement—"

"Not... no." He seems to relax, drift for a minute, then his eyes open and he focuses on her with a sniper's intensity. In that moment, his eyes and voice are shockingly clear. "I'm buying the first round, Shepard. When you catch up to me."

"Garrus. No. God, no. Don't—"

He takes a rattling breath and then his grip on her hand loosens and his eyes close again and the next breath doesn't come.

Vega loads yet another injector and the _Normandy_ screams in overhead and she doesn't flinch at the sound of the main guns turning a city block to ash.

3.

She steps from the shuttle, into the wind, and the radiation monitor in her omni-tool pings softly. She won't be here long enough to turn on the filters in her armor.

Palaven was brutalized in the war. Little was spared, including the buildings near this rocky coastline, where nothing but scrub grass and the occasional stunted tree ever grew. All that's left behind is a line of black, washed clean to the high-tide line, and a well-worn trail to the sea.

There aren't many people here, gathering their stones, making the long walk to where the houses once stood. The loss was too great. There are few left to mourn.

She starts down the trail, winding her way between boulders. It's winter here, or what passes for it. A storm is brewing on the horizon, orange clouds rolling over one another. She'll be gone before that hits, too. She's seen enough rain to last the rest of her life.

The stone beach sits in a cove, a long arc of smooth grey rocks that turn silver when the water washes over them. They shift with the waves, rolling against each other and making a sound like bones. Shepard stops at the end of the trail, where an armed attendant stands. His plates are worn and peeling, as though he's spent his life in this place, as weathered by the sea as the shore itself.

He recognizes her, of course, and nods politely, but says nothing, as she steps out onto the beach.

A thousand times, Garrus told her. Scholars thought that each stones had made the long journey—shore to river to ocean—no less than a thousand times. It was a ritual from in their past, to remember and forget and make some sense of the senseless.

The wind howls off the water and Shepard lowers her head and walks, understanding now why the turians would have called the buildings near the memorial sites 'silent houses.' Practical as always: they weren't holy buildings, but literally a place to escape the wind.

Most of the figures she passes are turian, but an asari looks up as she walks by, blue eyes blood-shot and puffy, one hand clutched to her chest, fingers around a stone.

The stones furthest from the ocean are the only ones that are suitable, and Shepard trudges away from the water, toward another attendant.

He stays silent as well, only tips his head toward the lightest-colored section of stones. She'd wonder at this lack of conversation, but that's practical as well. The grieving wouldn't want to shout over the wind.

It takes longer than it should, to pick up the stones. They're heavier in her hands than they have a right to be. Smooth and unseamed, worn featureless. And then she starts walking again.

Another path leads away from the shore, at a tangent toward a slow-moving river that feeds into the cove. There were shuttles, Garrus explained, for the elderly or infirm, but most tried to walk if they could.

It's two miles, and after the first half, she understands the reason for walking, because as she follows the course of the river, all she can think about is the small rocks and who each represents. The wind whips her hair into her eyes and she blames that for the stinging in her eyes.

Two miles is usually only warm up, but by the time she reaches the floating bridge, she's worn out. A third turian, armed and stoic, stands at one end of the bridge, inside of the protective fields of a small shelter.

As Shepard approaches, he motions to her, and she steps through the barrier.

The stillness within is startling.

The turian peers at her from pale blue eyes; the edges of his fringe are fraying worse than the first guard she'd met.

"Commander. I was told to expect you," he says, quietly. His voice is as worn as his plates, dual-harmonics roughened by time. "Set the stones in gently. The water will carry them."

She says nothing and looks away, out at the bridge, where the river laps at the sides.

"And," he continues, "there is no shame if you cannot let them go."

There are more people on the bridge. Turians and a few asari, but none of them give her a second glance as she makes her way to the center, where no one else kneels at the low railing.

The river itself is shallow, slow-moving, and as clear as glass. She kneels down and stares at the stones. The first is the hardest, but she's dry-eyed when she says _Kaidan Alenko_ and sets the stone on the river's smooth surface.

It sinks only part-way, air-filled microscopic pores buoying it up, then it floats away, carried by the current. She watches it until it's out of sight, then looks at the next stone.

_Tali'Zorah nar Rayya_.

She repeats this for each stone, although she is crying by the final one. They'll stay afloat for a time, until the river takes them well out into the cove. Then sea water will saturate them and gravity and density will eventually have their due and the stones will sink.

But, someday, they'll wash up on the shore again.

1.

The Kodiak settles gently on the floor of the _Normandy's _hangar and when the door swings up, she's not surprised to see Garrus, leaning against a storage container, arms crossed over his chest. Turians don't pale when they're stressed and weak, but Shepard can see it in the set of his mandibles and the way his shoulders droop.

"Chakwas know you're down here?" she asks.

He nods, smiling. "Y—No. Not a clue."

She laughs before she can stop herself. "Cute. You look like shit and I'm positive you're still high. Let's get you back upstairs."

He lets her take his wrist and pull his arm over her shoulder, supporting some of his weight on the way to the elevator.

"Just wanted to make sure you got back," he says as the door closes. The arm over her shoulders squeezes. "You... okay?"

She watches the indicator move slowly toward the crew deck.

"No. Not really." She looks at him and sees his concern. "But I think I will be."

END

* * *

A/N:

Several months ago, I did a fic giveaway on Tumblr. Servantofclio requested (paraphrasing) that instead of Garrus being introduced to a human ceremony or ritual, that Shepard be the one learning about turian culture. Apologies this took so long to finish, Clio.


End file.
